


I hear the jumps of your heart through the oceans

by Analinea



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reggie's dad is the same kind of asshole than Hopper in Stranger Things' season 3, Some Fluff, Some angst, and finding family and love and trust, first and last foray into this fandom, it's not graphic but it's there, parenthesis are the second best thing after semicolons, reflecting on emotional abuse, some baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27825619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analinea/pseuds/Analinea
Summary: He’s waiting for something, even if he doesn’t know what; it’s a constant presence in the empty cavities of his chest. It drives him to manic nervousness, to impatience, keeps him from taking in as much air as he needs to.(except that he doesn’t need to, but still he keeps on breathing– it’s less terrifying than the alternative)
Relationships: All the friendships - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 61





	I hear the jumps of your heart through the oceans

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people from the JaTP fandom! I love Julie and the boys and I didn't think I'd write for this show but here we are! I just couldn't let Reggie go without at least one fic idk, maybe it's because he doesn't have a set backstory yet, maybe it's the red flannel, maybe it's that he's funny and seems oblivious but there's slivers of sadness and smarts and hey! He's just joined my other adopted fictional characters. That's all. 
> 
> Title is from a french song by Pomme literally called [Why does death scares you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jatZhRg4HPk) it's awesome and I love her.  
> Also, I mentioned Hopper in the tags, see this [vid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R3cBJBhrpok) for an explanation of my feeling by someone who talks better than me. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

The water gets cold, but never freezing. The ocean of Reggie’s childhood is a warm one, if merciless at times. He remembers almost drowning once, saved only by an aunt he rarely ever saw but who had been the only one watching. Despite that, he always ran back into the waves.

He would laugh at how ironic it is that this would be a perfect metaphor for his entire life, but he has never been enough of an introspective guy to think like that. 

He stands there now, facing a distant horizon as empty as the place in his heart where his house used to stand. Shoes discarded somewhere behind him, he lets himself feel the soft lapping of the waves around his ankles and tries not to mourn the shock of the biting water. Everything is so tepid now, against his ghostly skin. 

He’s waiting for something, even if he doesn’t know what; it’s a constant presence in the empty cavities of his chest. It drives him to manic nervousness, to impatience, keeps him from taking in as much air as he needs to. 

(except that he doesn’t need to, but still he keeps on breathing– it’s less terrifying than the alternative) 

So Reggie plants his feet on the edge of an unnamed yearning and tries to keep his balance. It doesn’t help that there is a weight on his shoulders that feels like six feet of dark soil, roots encircling him in a tender but unwanted embrace.

When he was a child and morbid thoughts came without hesitation or fear, Reggie had wanted to be given back to the ocean when he died. Burial-at-sea for a kid of the shores. He doesn’t know what actually happened of his body– and doesn’t really care to know. 

He walks into the water with the purpose of someone used to washing the darkness off with salt, swims just far enough for his toes to stop raking at sand, and lets himself sink. 

The ocean surrounds him and the light plays with him and there is nothing to break the infinite fading into sapphire blue in all directions. Down here the versatile, fatherly sun can’t burn him with its overbearing need to give warmth until it’s  _ too much _ . No, instead it’s quiet. He can hear the beats of his own dead heart.

(he’s not sure if his pulse is just habit or a strange ghost rule, but he lets it fill him until his  _ need _ to breathe pushes him back to the surface)

He simply floats on his back for a while, sky and clouds greeting him from above like cousins. Up there, the day moon watches him with the kind indifference of a mother.

He waits until he feels dissolved across the entire Pacific, massive and deep and unknowable. Then he curls back inside of tiny Reggie, his boundaries clear and clean. It’s only then that he can roll on himself to swim back.

A flash memory: three figures waiting for him on the golden beach, looking his way in front of the blind windows of his house. No houses line up the beach now, and only two boys sit on the sand; it aches, down where not even the betrayal can reach.

Reggie walks up to them, drenched but not shaking. 

Back when they were alive, Luke would have hidden the worry behind, “If you catch a cold, you won’t be able to sing your parts.” Now he just watches him, concern badly contained by his silence. 

“Here,” Alex says, quiet as he offers Reggie a towel and folded clothes.

“D’you think I could poof out of the water on me?” Reggie asks as he takes the pile and starts undressing himself –those who can see him have  _ seen _ him already– softly cursing the wet fabric clinging to his skin like he hadn’t been the one deciding to keep them on for his swim.

“Hey,” Luke bumps their shoulders together just when Reggie is balanced on one foot, making him stumble. Luke chuckles when he glares at him, then continues, “Ray and Carlos are out this afternoon.”

Reggie straightens up, wondering why that is important enough to mention. He loves nothing more than hanging out with the Molinas, however one-sided that is, so if anything that shouldn’t be good news.

(it is no secret why he enjoys the father-and-son’s company, silent witness to a dynamic that sometimes makes his hands shake on the lyricless melody he plays to himself at night, on the beach, as catharsis to a feeling no words could express)

“Julie said we could use the kitchen,” Alex gestures to the bag next to him that Reggie hadn’t noticed, and the tempo of his heart accelerates with anticipation. He has trained and trained his hands to stop phasing through things for this moment– it’s still not perfect, but it’s enough.

Seeing his smile, the boys glance at each other with an obvious relief that Reggie can only love: he never doubts they care, but it’s always beautiful to get visible proof of their affection for him.

Because it used to be a fickle thing to him,  _ love _ , until he discovered how the bonds forged between two beats of a drum are unbreakable. How, even as behind every word can hide a weapon, the secret meaning of lyrics can also be kind.

Luke, Alex, Bobby too; they showed him what his parents never could.

Because here is the thing: the brain is made to remember the bad memories. A simple matter of survival, or so he heard. It’s why clinging to the light is vital; but who could guess that sometimes, the  _ good _ is the worst of it all?

Maybe the first step of growing up is realizing that love isn’t the cure-all of bedtime stories– sometimes it can be the poison, too. Somewhere on the tombstone pressing in on Reggie’s chest, there’s probably an engraved line that says  _ beloved son _ . It wouldn’t be a lie.

Here they are now, standing in the kitchen, Luke leaning on his elbows on the kitchen island while Alex stands opposite him with his hands in his pockets. Julie sits on a stool, head propped up on her hand; they’re all watching Reggie flutter around, organizing the contents of the bag on the countertop.

“Can you even eat without Caleb’s…,” she gestures spookily with her fingers, “thing?” 

“Probably not,” Luke shrugs. He cringes when Reggie grabs the box of eggs, mouth half open in unconscious focus their whole journey to safety. 

“That’s not the point, anyway,” Alex adds after a relieved sigh for the unbroken goods. 

Julie looks at all of them in turn, frowning. “What’s the point, then?” 

“Licking the chocolate!” Reggie laughs, shooting his arms up when he’s emptied the whole bag himself without dropping anything. Alex claps his shoulder while Luke whoops, then Reggie whirls on Julie and winks. “No need to thank me,” he says, finger guns at the ready, “since you’ll be the lucky one.” 

Julie chuckles, understands that there is more to this but lets it go. It might be unfair not to tell her what this means to Reggie, but he wouldn’t know– he’s never had to put it to words. They lived through it without talking about it per say; he has no idea how he could explain something he barely comprehends, only feels.

So he puts the chocolate in the pot, adds the butter, never measuring anything; it’s an empty space in his mind that allows him to look for a way to articulate what isn’t even a story, just disjointed moments forming a whole that defined him down to the shape of his bones. 

He thinks, as he follows the steps to a dance he has witnessed so many times he knows it by heart; he thinks about being a kid on a stool, watching his dad work on the perfect dessert to show off to people.

“This, son,” he would say, “was your grandfather’s trade. It’s your legacy. Watch,” he would turn to him, “until you learn to do anything without being so damn clumsy. It’s professional work, and it’s a man’s legacy to his son.” 

And Reggie watched. And Reggie didn’t touch. And he never questioned. 

(he is still so scared of breaking things, of proving that he’s as damaging as his father said, of driving people away with his fumbling just like he did his mom – _ it’s your fault she’s never home you know– _ he still believes that in the heart that lays deep in the dark earth – _ but  _ I _ love you _ )

He thinks, as his hands  _ touch _ now, about his father’s gentle fingers and the giant frosty cakes on his birthdays. About the bass under the Christmas tree. About the movies watched together. About licking the chocolate. 

“Mom used to do this,” Julie says wistfully as Reggie tests the consistency of the whipped up eggs. “Not much, but for special occasions.”

“Mine wasn’t much around,” Reggie answers, head tilted in consideration of his work. “Though I never figured where she went.” It’s funny how much it doesn’t hurt. Time didn’t heal this wound, even if twenty-five years have passed in an hour. It’s simply an injury that never really let itself bleed in the first place.

He turns to the cooling chocolate, scoops up a spoonful of it to gently mix it with the whites. “She was just a kid having to raise a child she never wanted.” He shrugs carefully, mindful of his movements staying smooth. “I don’t blame her for wanting to live her own life.”

(but he does, blame her, and his dad, and everyone else for letting him be born anyway, but he’s grateful for growing up to become one limb of Sunset Curve and finding his family in the other three; opposite feelings aren’t mutually exclusive, most of the time)

The silence lasts until the last of the chocolate is in. Luke and Alex have used up their words a long time ago, and Julie knows enough about the empty consolations to wait for the right moment to speak. 

“Done,” Reggie says with a proud smile, looking at the others. “Two hours in the fridge and it’s ready,” he adds for Julie, before deflating so suddenly everyone jumps. “This was exhausting,” he laughs, but on his face is a contentment that not even the spoon going straight through his hand to clatter on the dark tiles can break. 

“You do love doing this, don’t you?” Julie smiles back when she’s sure he’s not ghost fainting. 

“It’s just like making music,” he answers, this lopsided grin on his face that Julie has grown to look forward to seeing. 

“Speaking of, shouldn’t we be practicing?” Luke claps his hands on the countertop, bouncing on his feet. 

Reggie looks at all of them in turn, a hollowness in his chest filling up with salt water. “I’ll just be a minute, you guys,” he says, and Luke watches him for a second before Alex drags him away gently, Julie following with one last questioning look his way. 

He poofs back to the beach, just for a second. He used to do this in the past too: wash his pain away, follow the boys into warmth, then on his way back dip his fingers in the water one last time. Overlay the Reggie that felt himself dissolve and the one slowly understanding that love means freedom and not ownership.

The ocean in his heart spills over, coating his cheeks in a layer of healing salt. This is not sadness, he’s simply feeling so happy he can’t contain it all. 

Once the ache in his heart has turned into a fluttering weight, something good instead of overwhelming, he closes his eyes and lets himself disappear into a smile, reappears back at the studio. 

They’re all waiting for him, Julie sitting at the keyboard testing out a chord progression with Luke while Alex bobs his head to the music. They turn to him with a wide smile, beckon him over. “Reggie! What do you think of this?” 

“That’s a bop!” he laughs, winking at Julie who always rolls her eyes fondly when they overuse terms they just learned about. 

He takes his place, getting the bass strap over his head so the familiar weight of the instrument settles on his shoulder. He lets his fingers take the lead, the notes nestling between Luke and Julie’s parts. Alex whoops and adds the rhythm of his heart to paint a complete picture of all of them in the new song. 

Like this, hours mean nothing and Reggie understands how years could pass by without any of them noticing. 

“Julie!” comes a distant voice when they’re taking a short break, announcing her dad and brother’s return.

She turns to the door, “Coming!” then shoots one last smile at the boys and runs out. She shoots back inside, “Oh, Reggie, do you mind if I share your desert with them now? Or I can eat it later with you guys. Well, when we’re together. You get the idea,” she shrugs.

“Nah, go ahead, tell me if it’s good!” 

“You already know it is, you don’t need the extra compliments to get to your head,” Luke laughs, putting an arm around his shoulders.

Reggie turns his head to him with an offended look, “Hey!”

Julie laughs, thanks him and runs back out with a wave of her hand. 

“Validation is very important, Luke, you could stand to compliment us more,” Alex nods his head wisely, lips shaking with a repressed laugh. 

“Dude! I trust you to know how much I love you,” he blows a kiss at Alex who catches it and throws it behind his shoulder. Luke shouts and jumps on him to retaliate; Reggie laughs and goes to enjoy the show from the couch. 

It might only be a joke, Reggie thinks, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? Trust. For each of them, at the core of their darkness it’s about that. It’s what Reggie seeks, soaks up in Ray and Carlos’ presence. 

This dad who trusts his children to make their own choices, know their own heart, make mistakes even. Who always discusses instead of hammering in his point with a loud voice. Who accepts that he doesn’t always know best.

Reggie couldn’t believe it at first, kept waiting for the inevitable. When it stubbornly didn’t come–

(there is a tipping point between knowing something is wrong and  _ understanding _ that– Reggie fell the moment he fully realized you aren’t supposed to be as afraid of your father as you love him; it happened in a second, but for three days he felt as he does when he lets himself sink to the bottom of the ocean without a breath, the water his body and his body a stranger he’s watching from the outside)

–he flashed back to the old normal of his family life. 

To being invited to Alex's house back when it was still on the list of homes, ever dwindling. “Won’t your parents get mad you closed your door?” Reggie asked him when they stepped inside his bedroom; the look of horror on Alex’s face, retrospectively, might have been born out of fear about his secret being discovered –did he think Reggie knew and was wary the way parents are when boys and girls are left alone? 

“Why would they?” Alex asked back in a thin voice Reggie didn’t think much of at the time. Him being a kid meant, on some level, an egocentrism that directed him to think Alex was surprised on behalf of him just as Alex though the question was about himself. Time gives enough distance to make both their existential crises funny in the circumstances. 

But here it is: Reggie had always thought before this moment that never being allowed privacy was normal. “Just in case,” his father used to say, letting the implications hang in the air rather than giving straight answers. Giving Reggie space to build his own beliefs on:  _ I can’t be trusted then, _ he thought,  _ that probably makes me a bad kid _ .

(for some people, the tipping point between rationalizing it wasn’ your fault and believing it never comes; Reggie still has faith in the fact that he must have done  _ something _ for his father to be so afraid that he held onto him to the point of suffocation, showing his love in silent gestures or anger, depending on the occasion)

Reggie watches the night fall behind the windows of the studio, safe in the boys’ presence. His very existence is a miracle when ghosts are supposed to be vengeful and resenting but he can keep on making music for as long as he wants to. 

He can bask in the perfection of this new forever, ignore the pull behind his heart, the strange yearning inhabiting him. On the other end of it might be his unfinished business, he supposes. If he tugs on this string, closing his eyes to better concentrate, he gets an image. Of absence.

He reaches his hand to thank his father one last time for his affection. He reaches with his whole body, to ask for something he never thought he’d have the right to: an apology. 

An admission of mistakes made, of hurt delivered no matter that it was not the intended effect, no matter that it was born out of love. 

Who would have thought, in the end, that Reggie would be the one leaving too soon for closure? It is a mercy, to not have to fight against the stubbornness of the living, against his father’s ego? 

Reggie stops asking himself that; he opens his eyes and jumps back into the warm air that carried his friend’s laughter. This is as good as death gets, surely, and he loves every moment of it. When he’s old, weary, tired of all of this –not in body, obviously, but in mind– he’ll have long since cut out the string. 

His unfinished business, as the last victory of a kid finally controlling his destiny, will be his own to choose. 

Until then, until he dissolves for the last time in the warm ocean, he’ll give back as good as he gets. 

Love.

Trust.

And music.

**Author's Note:**

> Please validate the fact that I didn't work on the last chapter of my long WIP to write this story *sobs* kudos and comments would make my day! 
> 
> Also I'm on [tumblr](https://kinsbournescream.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk!


End file.
